It all started at The Howling Pint, a dingy little bar tucked away in Sydney’s Newtown. The joint was the perfect mix of gritty charm and cheap pints, where dreams were either made or drowned in a schooner of VB. It was a Wednesday night—open mic night—and the small crowd was already a few drinks in, their cheers teetering on the edge of heckling.
Jesse, the future lead singer, took the stage like they were stepping into a prizefight. With nothing but a battered acoustic guitar and a voice that sounded like heartbreak set on fire, Jesse launched into a ballad so raw it practically bled. The lyrics weren’t polished, and the guitar was a bit dodgy, but you couldn’t look away. It was a gutsy performance that had most of the room too stunned to heckle.
Except for Alex, who sat in the corner nursing a middy of beer. Alex, a drummer with a permanent case of restless hands, started tapping out a rhythm on the sticky table halfway through Jesse’s set. When the song ended and Jesse stepped offstage, red-faced and sweating, Alex wandered over, casual as anything.
“Not bad,” Alex said, raising their beer. “Bit rough around the edges, though. Ever thought about throwing in a proper beat?”
Jesse snorted, half amused, half offended. “You reckon you could do better?”
“Mate,” Alex replied with a smirk, “I don’t reckon—I know.”
At a booth near the back, Sam, the future bassist, was busy scribbling song lyrics in a notebook stained with coffee and who knows what else. Sam had come to The Howling Pint for inspiration, and Jesse’s set hit like a bolt of lightning. It was messy and unfiltered, but it felt real.
Sam moseyed over, notebook in hand, and said, “Oi, I’ve got some words that might go with that sound of yours.” They plonked their bass case onto the table, the offer clear without needing more words.
Then came Riley, the guitarist, making an entrance as chaotic as their playing style. Riley burst through the doors with their guitar strapped across their back like they were ready for a showdown. Riley had just been booted from yet another band, accused of being “too out there,” whatever that meant. Spotting Jesse, Alex, and Sam huddled together, Riley made a beeline for the group.
“What’s this, a pity party?” Riley teased, dropping into the seat next to them. “Got room for one more misfit?”
Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Can you keep up?”
Riley didn’t say a word. They pulled out their guitar and ripped into a riff so good that it shut everyone up for a solid minute.
“Yeah, alright,” Jesse said, trying not to look too impressed.
The night spiraled into chaos the way only a Sydney open mic night can. The four of them grabbed borrowed instruments and started jamming onstage like they’d been playing together for years. The crowd—half cut but fully vibing—started cheering louder with each makeshift song.
When they finally stumbled offstage, sweaty and buzzing, they found themselves sitting outside on the curb, passing around a bag of hot chips from the local servo.
“We need a name,” Jesse declared, squinting into the night.
After a round of absolutely terrible suggestions (“Vegemite Vendetta,” “Drop Bear Riot”), Jesse groaned and said, “We’ve all got our pain. Let’s hoard it and make something out of it.”
Riley pointed a chip at them. “Oi, that’s it! Hoarders of Hurt.”
They all laughed, but the name stuck.
From that night on, Hoarders of Hurt was more than just a band—it was a crew, a family, and a damn good excuse to turn life’s chaos into music that hit harder than a magpie in spring.
